


settling

by immaturities



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, FUCK, Gen, Second person POV, i mean the entire fic is about max trying to cope with chloe's death so uh, yeah.............. also it takes place over max's entire life so. um. lolol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 16:13:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9615542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/immaturities/pseuds/immaturities
Summary: of course it matters. it happened.-she might be dead, but you aren't.so you keep going.





	

When you wake up, Arcadia Bay is quiet, birds are chirping, and the sun is mellow. Beams float through your window, and your eyes are heavy. She was already dead, and you know it, but you still expect to roll over and see her face in your messages. Then you remember, you don't even have a photo of her. That would be too much temptation.

But you don't have your powers anymore, anyway. For whatever reason, you went through the week from hell, and there was no point in any of it. None of it could’ve ever lasted, because time was a jerk, and - just another whim of the cosmos, probably. No answers, no reasons, no nothing. Just a dead almost-girlfriend and a town rocked to its core.

Pushing the memories of the dark room away, and yourself into a sitting position on the edge of your bed, you remember Chloe's funeral is today. That's right. You look at the black dress you have laid over the back of your desk chair, and feel your stomach drop. It had been announced quietly, for the entire school, but not everyone was going to go. That'd be too weird. Most people at school didn’t even know who she was. Even the people she’d met during that week - don’t think about it.

You didn't want to go. You grasp your wrist tightly, clutching the bracelet you took off her in the bathroom. Was that strange? You don’t know. You don’t really care, either way.

 _Come on, Max_ , you think, letting go and standing up, _no running away._  

.

Eight days after the funeral, you sit in a booth at the Two Whales Diner, gazing out the window. Classes had restarted, but campus was still muted. Everyone walked around with their heads down, murmuring to each other. It was a silence no one had been brave enough to break yet. You hadn't been much for conversation, either. A few tea meetings in Kate's room, her way of helping, and seeking comfort at the same time. A few lunches with Warren - who seemed to understand that you were grieving so much more than anyone else could see.

Regardless, the diner had the same quiet hum of the regular patrons, and the music from the jukebox, obscuring their exact words just enough. You feel tired, still. It's strange. You've developed a habit of twisting the spiked bracelet on your wrist during your quiet moments, because it's the only thing from her that you have. It felt safe to have, because there was no way you could've used it against yourself, even with your former powers.

Joyce comes over to take your order, and looks surprised. She didn't notice you at the funeral, too upset to truly pay attention to anything around her, so this is probably the first time she's fully registered your presence in Arcadia Bay. It feels odd. Your stomach is tight, but you give her a smile and pray it looks alright. She gives you one in return, and you're reminded of how much you've always admired how strong she is. That hasn't changed.

"Well, well," she says, one hand on her hip, "if it isn't Maxine Caulfield."

"Hi, Joyce," you say, still smiling. _This is the second time_ , you think, but there’s no possible way she’d know that. Joyce shakes her head.

"You know, I'm sure you were there on Saturday, but - "

"It's alright." She'd been leaning on David, and you were sure she had been thinking about William, too. Both of them had been taken from her. Joyce nods, and immediately brings her pen back up, ready to write. Professional _and_ strong. She’s so cool.

"What'll it be, Max?"

"Belgian waffles," you respond, "and a mug of coffee, please."

"Comin' right up, miss."

It's so surreal. Your head hurts, a bit, and you think it's probably because you want to cry, but you smile at her again, instead. You want to tell her, _I'm sorry for not saving your daughter. I was right there, but all I could do was hide. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._

But when she comes back with your food, all you say is, "Thanks."

.

Chloe's lips were surprisingly soft. You remember them on yours, and sigh, just a bit. Her laugh, breathless, echoes in your ears.

.

David was like a zombie, now, whenever you saw him on the grounds. He'd refused to take a day off, you'd heard, but the stress was obvious to anyone who bothered even looking at him. He was quieter, but not in a nice way. It was a little scary. Like he was barely keeping it together.

It was weird. He'd been such a dick to Chloe, and you knew it, but you also knew how much he'd loved her, too. It must've been hard to come back from so many horrible things, to a calm and tranquil little town in Oregon where nothing ever really happened. Maybe he'd come back to Arcadia Bay _because_ nothing happened. Maybe he had thought it would help him recover. It didn't really matter after last week, though.

You don't know how to talk to him. You don't know if you _should_ , really, but it feels wrong to leave him alone. He was probably blaming himself, as if he could've somehow prevented it.

 _I tried that_ , you think, _look what good that did_.

It's when you see him in the hallway one day, leaving class early, standing wooden and staring at the wall, with tears on his cheeks, that you finally approach him.

"...David?"

He looks at you, but he isn't defensive, or angry. He looks exhausted.

"Max. What do you need."

You're tongue tied for a moment, and his red eyes show he's been crying frequently, you think. What do you say? Even if he and Chloe never got along, he was still her father.

"It's not. Your fault," you try, the words strange on your tongue, "what happened to Chloe. And, you shouldn't... blame yourself."

He gives you a long, hard look, and finally says, "I should have been there faster. It's my job."

To that, you have no response, but he fixes his hat, and straightens his posture.

"Don't waste time worrying about me. I'll be fine." He says, firmly, like he's in charge of himself again. Authority and all.

But watching him walk away, you aren't sure if you believe it.

.

_My powers… might not last, Chloe._

_But we will. Forever._

Forever was only four days, huh?

You close your eyes as you're sprawled on your bed. You always thought it'd be a little longer than that.

.

There are lots of dreams about her. Memories, sometimes. But usually, just dreams of being with her. Lying in her bed together, facing each other with her fingers combing lazily through your short hair. They're long, and slender, and she's wearing the same clothes you last saw her in. She's smiling, her eyes twinkling in the orange light that filters in. The sun never sets, and it paints her like a flame. You close your eyes.

 _I love you_ , you say. It's shaky, and quiet, and Chloe laughs. It hurts. It hurts. Your heart is screaming, and your nose burns. She presses her lips to your eyelids, and says, without any of the desperation from the last time she saw you, _I'll always love you, Max. Don't forget me, okay?_

But sometimes, she's dancing on her mattress, laughing, and she pulls you up, up, beside her and into her arms, and she's smiling into your hair as the two of you move, just barely off rhythm. You bump hips, and you're smiling, pushing away, and nearly falling. She grabs your hand and you're both laughing, and you're filled with butterflies. You love her, you think, and you both collapse onto her bed after thrashing wildly to heavy rock, out of breath and still laughing. She looks at you, grinning, and says, _You're amazing_. You snort.

Other dreams, you remember her hands on your arms, rain slapping against your cheeks, and bile rising in your throat. She has to shout to be heard over the storm, and she still says she loves you, even though she knows you're going to kill her by hiding in a corner of the bathroom, and you know that gunshot will kill you, too. She loves you, and she kisses you hard, knowing she'll never know any of this happened when she dies, and your chest is collapsing on itself. _Oh, God, please, don’t make me do this_ \- you focus on the butterfly, trying to breathe, and it aches, you’re screaming, but it won’t come out.

You open your eyes.

The sun is barely rising, and you're curled up on your side. When you stretch, your back cracks, and it hurts, hurts, hurts. Distantly, an ache deep in your bones. _Five am is not when humans were meant to rise_ , you think, but you get up anyway.

.

Kate is sweet and incredibly patient with you. Through trial and error, she learns the kind of tea you like best, even though you can't remember the name. It was kind of citrusy, and flowery, and it was comforting. Better than coffee, too, probably. It was just hot water, right? With leaves. Leaf juice. That couldn’t be bad for you… probably.

"You seem a little better." She remarks one day. You consider it.

"It's been a few weeks, so I guess I had some time to..." you pause, "process?"

She gives you a small smile, and she only looks a little tired. The normal kind of tired. Not the jump off a building kind of tired. You're glad for that, at least.

"She was your friend, right?"

"She was," you say after a moment, sheepish, "probably a lot more than that."

Kate accepts it without question, and that's part of the reason why you adore her. She just closes her eyes, and nods, and says, "Then maybe you shouldn't push yourself too hard."

"Nah, it's okay," you hold your cup in both hands, curled up on her bed, leaning against the wall with her, "she'd probably kick my butt if I kept moping."

There's silence for a long moment as Kate sips at her own tea, a kind of spiced tea that smelled a bit like vanilla. In the settling twilight peeking in through her window, she seems almost ethereal. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheeks, and her hair still falls in strands out of the black hair tie struggling to keep her bun together. The two of you spend a few minutes like that, you glancing at her, and her thinking. Then, she says, "Would you mind telling me more about her?"

You smile, closing your eyes, and say, laughing, "We might be here a while if I start talking about her."

"That's okay," she says, "we have lots of time, and plenty of tea."

.

Only once, you dream of Rachel Amber. In a black expanse, she appears like an angel, glowing and bright. She smiles at you, warm and soft, and you feel like magic still exists because this feels _real_.

 _Thank you_ , she says, but you don't hear her voice. You don't understand, but you feel yourself blinking hard.

"I didn't do anything," you say, voice breaking, "all I did was mess things up. I never changed anything."

 _No_ , she says, and her face is sad, _you did so much. More than you ever should have. And I'm sorry._

"It's not your fault that you - "

 _I dragged you into this_ , she sits down, curls her legs up beside her, and she's looking into the dark, _you, and... Chloe, too._

Your heart leaps into your throat, but you tentatively sit down, a foot away, and say, "But... you were dead."

 _Yup. Sure was,_  she smiles.

"I don't understand." Your head is spinning. Rachel Amber looks at you out of the corner of her eye and breaks into a wide smile. She really was beautiful. You look down.

 _That's okay. The dead have their own way of doing things_ , she says, shrugging, _but I just wanted to say thank you for helping her._

"Find you?"

_Move on._

"But none of it mattered."

 _Of course it mattered,_ she laughs, and your stomach flips, _It happened._

With that, she gets up, and she’s still laughing, leaving you in the dark, in both senses of the word. Before you can ask anything else, all you see is a deer, a doe, looking directly at you. It turns, walking away, and you can't speak.

You wake up, confused, and realise you can't remember what you were dreaming about in the first place.

.

No one talks about Jefferson. He’s become something of a taboo, and you’re _glad_. He didn’t deserve to be remembered.

It makes you a little sick, and more than a little angry, to think there would still be people who admired his work.

.

It’s hard to say her name, sometimes. Most of the time. Because, y’know, you’re afraid your voice will break, and everyone will know you’re in love with a dead girl, and somehow that feels sad. Really sad. And you don’t want to deal with even more pity.

But sometimes, her name is the only thing you can think. Chloe. Chloe. Chloe. Over and over, like a mantra. As if it was the only thing that could ever keep you together. That was probably pretty sad, too. You sit in class, trying to listen to lectures, and all you can remember is the shape of her teeth, and how many freckles she has on her ears, and the number of tears in her favourite pair of jeans, and her _name_. As if you’d ever forget.

You just don’t know what to do about it. Eventually, this is supposed to fade away, right? All the tightness, and the strange empty spot in your stomach, that seems to scream every time you’re reminded that Chloe Price doesn’t exist, anymore. Her car is gone, her parking tickets will never be paid, and her room will be cleaned out within the year, and the blue hair dye in the bathroom will be thrown away. Like she was never there.

So you’re just. Here. Left with memories that never actually happened, dreaming of a girl that never knew you were there, and still believed she’d never see you again. You love her, from events that didn’t exist in this world, and kisses you stole from time, and Chloe was gone. Now, and forever.

When you see a ghost standing behind you in the mirror, you look at her for a long time, and she snorts at you. Opens her mouth, but there’s no sound, and you don’t know how to read lips. You can see your photographs through her chest. You move away, going to your backpack, and picking it up. You’re not sure why.

“It’s not real.” You mutter to yourself, stepping back to the mirror with your eyes screwed shut, backpack in hand.  

When you open your eyes, you don’t see her anymore. You let the backpack drop to the ground, and the textbooks inside it sound a dull thud. Something like hysteria begins to claw its way up through your throat, and it bubbles out in the form of laughter. You keep laughing, and laughing, because you don’t know what else to do, and it’s been two months, and you still feel tired, and -

She wasn’t there, anymore. Chloe Price was dead. You made a choice, and let her die.

_I’ll always love you._

You let her die.

.

Nathan Prescott was a murderer, but you can somehow still find it in your heart to feel… bad, for him. Remembering that sobbing message, and the way he collapsed in fear after shooting -

It’s sad. He was so desperate for praise, he turned to a psychopath to get it. And the worst part was, his dad was probably just as bad as Jefferson, anyway.

.

Three months, and it’s gotten a little easier. You have days where you can laugh, and laugh, and Kate is laughing with you about something cute on your phone, and it feels mostly normal. Warren doesn’t hit on you anymore, Victoria was doing some kind of strange passive-aggressively _nice_ routine, but things with Kate were fine. Better than fine, even. You spend more and more time together, and it’s a relief. At least some things had changed for the better.

So you’re a little stumped when she says to you one day, “I had a dream you saved my life.”

You look at her, and blink once. There’s a small smile on her face, and she continues, “I was going to jump off the roof, and you stopped me.”

It knocks the air from your lungs. She was talking about something she should have never known about, couldn’t know about, like she was discussing the weather. She taps a rhythm on her thigh, not looking at you, but she’s still smiling.

“I just. Wanted to say thank you, for that.”

You don’t know what else to do, so you let her lean on you, and you lean on her, and begin to cry.

.

_Of course it mattered. It happened._

.

Four months after the funeral, and you find yourself in the Two Whales, yet again. You’ve been trying to stop by often, anyway, because Joyce is family, but sometimes it’s hard. Regardless, you’re sitting in the booth now, looking out the window, past your own reflection to the street outside. It’s closer to lunch than it is to breakfast because you’d been hanging out with Warren, listening to him talk about some kind of sci-fi movie, and making fun of him.

Joyce comes over and sets down your usual mug of coffee, and says, “You’re a little later than usual today, Max.”

“I was with a friend,” you say, wrapping your hands around the mug, “and he can keep talking about aliens for days.”

She shakes her head.

“So, then? What’re you gettin’ today?”

“Just the breakfast platter,” shifting in your seat, “with ham instead of sausage. Please.”

“You got it.”

When she leaves, you look across the table at Chloe, and she smiles at you without a word. You put three packets of sugar in your mug, stir them in, and close your eyes to sip. It burns your mouth a bit, but when you open your eyes, she’s gone. In a little while, Joyce comes back with your food, and you smile, thanking her.

Then, you ask, “Do you - see her? Sometimes?”

She pauses, and then looks at you for a long moment. You don’t know if it’s a good look or a bad one, but eventually she says, “Every day.”

.

_Don’t forget about me, okay?_

.

You’re beginning to think the key to moving on is accepting that you’re never going to get rid of the ghost in your peripheral vision.

And, really, that’s okay. It’s kinda like having a secret that no one else will ever get to know, and that’s a lot of fun. Kind of sad, but. Fun. It’s not like it ever does anything, either. She just stands there, a flash of blue, and she smiles. Sometimes says things that you can’t hear. So, really, it’s not like there’s anything wrong with it.

So you don’t tell anyone. Joyce never brings up your question, and you never ask anything about it again. You get through high school with Chloe Price on your shoulder, in your heart, or whatever, and it’s a little weird, but also a little comforting.

When you graduate, she’s in the very front of the audience, clapping, laughing, and you smile back. You blink, and she’s gone.

.

She appears at random times in your life. Less and less often, as the years go by. She’s always smiling, and she’s dressed in the same outfit she died in. No blood. No gunshot wound. She never ages. You begin to return her smiles.

It's strange. You don't really feel like you're hung up on her, specifically. You could probably date other people, and you're moving on with your life. Somewhat. Slowly, but surely. The problem comes with the fact that you think about that week all the time. Almost daily. And, inevitably, thinking of the week you could control time always leads you back to Chloe. She was the entire reason it had happened.

...Probably. You don't _actually_ know. Maybe it's the fact that you loved her that makes it feel like she was always a singularity. Maybe the fact that you _still_ love her is what convinces you, later in life, that she _must_ have been.

She was the reason you changed. She was always the reason for your biggest jumps. The biggest mistakes. The ones you can't take back, because they don't exist, anymore. There was something about not being able to apologise that made it even harder to move on from them. But you were managing. Trying. A little bit, every day.

.

Kate Marsh never becomes a professional photographer, but she starts her own tea shop, and she’s so happy, you can’t be anything but proud of her. Everyone moves on, and everyone moves apart. It’s fine that way, you think. You and Kate keep in touch, every day, and that’s more than enough for you. You end up in San Francisco even without the stupid contest, and it’s more than you could’ve ever dreamed, and Kate tells you she’s proud of you, too.

You’re the Maid of Honour at her wedding. Her husband is a nice man, religious like her, and he has a firm handshake, and wavy brown hair, cut short. When it’s time for your speech, you clear your throat, and stand up, and one of Kate’s uncles taps on his glass with his spoon. Your dress is medium blue, and a little fancier than you’re used to, and you feel your mouth go a bit dry at all the eyes on you.

“Hi,” you say, trying to swallow, “My name - is Max Caulfield, and I’ve known Kate. Since high school.”

There’s a bit of murmuring, and you look at Kate, who is just smiling at you. Patient, loving, and good Kate. You take a deep breath, and continue.

“Kate Marsh is, as many of you know, one of the best people you could ever possibly meet. She’s strong, and I’ve never met anyone as kind and gentle as her. Not to mention,” you smile, “she can guess what kind of tea you’d like just by talking to you for a few minutes.” A few chuckles. “She will never know how much she’s helped me over the years, just by being herself. If you ever need anything, Kate is always there, with a shoulder, and a pot full of tea. She really listens, and she is the best friend I could have ever had.”

Kate’s eyes are sparkling, and you feel a little overwhelmed. “There is no one. No one. More deserving of a happy beginning than the woman sitting right there,” you say, voice breaking just a bit, and you smile harder, “and I am so, so proud that I was here to see it happen. Kate,” she’s laughing, and her new husband is holding her hand, “I love you. Congratulations.”

She rushes over to you and hugs you tight, and you breathe in, holding her just as close.

“I love you, Max,” she whispers, “thank you.”

.

(Unfortunately, after that, your parents start to make pointed jokes about getting married, and so does Joyce. You kind of regret helping them all figure out how to use Facebook.)

.

Warren seems like he’s doing well for himself. You don’t speak to him as often now, because he’s off doing Real Science-y Things, and he’s incredibly busy, but, then again, so are you. He shoots you emails sometimes, full of weird things he’s found, or even photos of things from the lab he works in, but it’s not really anything you can understand.

It’s fun, though. He’s trying to keep you in his life, so you try to keep yourself in his, too. You tell him about your upcoming shows, and send him snapshots, sometimes, asking his opinion. It’s comfortable, and a little professional, and it makes you feel like an actual adult. It’s kinda funny.

He comes to one of your shows, eventually. You’re both in your late twenties, and you haven’t seen him in years, but he doesn’t look much different. Taller, and broader, maybe, but he still has the same lopsided smile, and too-quick laugh. He dresses casually, just wearing jeans and a long sleeved shirt, looking a little out of place in the gallery space. You sneak up behind him, and tap on his shoulder. When he jumps, you laugh, and he turns, relieved.

“Max,” he says, “hi.”

“Hi.”

“That’s such an awful greeting, y’know,” he continues, “I could’ve spilled some… little cracker on myself.”

“Ah, yes,” you say, grinning, “a little cracker. Known for staining cotton.”

He laughs, and it makes you laugh, too. His voice is deeper, and it doesn’t crack. You show him around the gallery, feeling weirdly self conscious, and he listens to your rambling with only small interjections. In the end, he declares, “Max, you’re a rockstar.”

You laugh, trying to keep your voice down, “Is that your opinion of the show?”

“Yes,” he says, serious, “rockstar material.”

“If only photographs could play instruments.” You shake your head.

“Seriously, Max,” he looks around, arms crossed loosely, eyes wandering on all the photos closest to them, “I might not be the best at understanding photography, but even I can tell that this show is amazing. You’re really good.”

“Thanks,” you say, looking at the walls, “I guess I’m getting better.”

“If you get any better, you’ll be like a god.”

You nudge him in the ribs, hard, and snicker. He’s laughing again, and you realise you haven’t smiled so much in a long time.

.

David dies first. His funeral is quiet, and very small. You go just to support Joyce. She’s silent the entire time, and she stands up straight. You admire her, still. Her body is growing frail, and you’re sure you’ll be taller than her soon. She’s been through too much. It’s kind of painful to realise you admire her for all the grief she’s dealt with in her life. It was too much death for one woman.

“He was a good man,” she tells you, after everyone has left. You’re both standing beside the fresh grave, looking at the overturned dirt, “despite everything, he was a good man, and he just wanted what was best for us - for me.”

“I know,” you say, putting your arm around her, and you don’t tell her all the ways you really, truly do. Despite everything - everything David could have done, everything he would have done, everything he didn’t do, and everything he _did_ \- you know he had always meant well. Even when he did everything wrong.

Joyce’s shoulders are small, now. You wish you could shoulder some of her tragedy. You squeeze her gently to your side, instead.

.

Kate’s first child is a girl named Madeline, and she names you godmother. You don’t think you’re very good with kids, but when you take a look at that little goober for the first time, you fall head over heels for her.

“She’s so _small_.” You whisper in awe to an exhausted Kate. She laughs.

“She’s only two hours old,” Kate says, her eyes only half open, “of course she’s small.”

It’s amazing to you, really. You hold baby Madeline so carefully, cradling her head in one hand, and feel tears prickling your eyes. There are no words you can think of to properly describe how you’re feeling, but Kate seems to understand all the emotions behind your choked sob, and just laughs again. You try to laugh, and it’s half a sob, but baby Madeline keeps sleeping.

“I’m gonna keep you safe,” you say to her, quiet and raw, “you’ll see. Nothing’s ever gonna hurt you. Max is gonna make sure of that.”

She stirs, only slightly, and you slowly give her back to her mother’s tired arms. Kate’s husband, Jack, comes back into the room with water for her, and sits on the other side of the bed.

It feels strange to think, suddenly: you’re glad things turned out this way.

.

Joyce dies only two years after David does. Almost the entire town visits, and you can’t help but think how odd it is that you’re the one they offer condolences to. Surely Joyce had family? Siblings? Nieces, nephews, maybe? But you were the only one they could find, and of course you raced up to Arcadia Bay to take care of things. You would’ve gone sooner, to see her, but she collapsed without warning.

Well. It didn’t really matter, now. Baby Madeline, no longer such a baby, had met Grandma Joyce several times, primarily through you. Joyce was a second mother to you.

(That wasn’t to say your own parents were lacking, somehow, because they _weren’t_ , it was just. They hadn’t been in Arcadia. And Joyce… well, it was your fault, some part of you still believed.

So it was just different. You wanted to fill the hole that had been left in her life, but that was a hole your parents didn’t have. But of course Madeline knew your own parents, too.)

Regardless, you were the one receiving condolences, and it was weird, and it felt a little wrong, but you just nodded, and murmured thank yous. Afterwards, you finally bring yourself to really go through her things--the old house was going to be put up for sale, and you had the job of picking out things you wanted to keep, although that also felt kind of wrong.

Not much had changed. It was silent, yes, but the furniture was the same, despite being a little dustier. You look around the living room, and everything is just about how you remember. The same family photos, the same couch, table, and chairs. The same garage. You go upstairs, and go into Joyce’s room. The bed is perfectly made, and one nightstand has a lamp, a clock, and some photos on it. The other is bare.

You walk over to the photos, and sit on the very edge of the bed. A school photo of Chloe from when you were still young. A picture of her and David. You put those two in the canvas bag you brought with you for the few things you wanted. And, then, a photo of you, from a gallery opening. You feel your throat close, and you stand up again, quickly, moving to the wardrobe. She didn’t have much jewelry, and only one bottle of perfume. You decide to take that, because it was comforting, but you leave the jewelry.

Then, you peek in Chloe’s old room.

Over the years, it had been turned into storage, it looked like. Some boxes tucked away, mostly holiday decorations, but some photo albums. You take those, and plan to look through them when you get home. You feel odd in the house, and you want to leave as soon as possible.

When you turn around, you see Chloe standing there, her arms crossed, looking around the room. You stop. It’s been so long since the last time she appeared, you’d almost assumed she’d never show up again, but -

She looks like she sighs. You open your mouth, but she’s gone before you can speak. Instead, you shift the bag to your other hand, and leave her room, going back to the living room. You take the photo of William now, and any others you see. You can always go through them more carefully, later.

At the door, you turn back around and survey the hallway one last time. There’s nothing left to do. It strikes you as you look around, that you never really knew how old Joyce was. Even now, you don’t remember what was written on her grave. It would have to stay that way.

At thirty-eight, you leave the Price house, and Arcadia Bay, for the last time.

.

You look at yourself in the mirror sometimes. It’s a little strange. You’re forty-two years old, and you don’t think you really look much different. There are lines creasing your face, from smiling, and laughing. You poke your cheeks and tug at the skin beneath your eyes, and it feels softer to the touch. Your hair still doesn’t touch your shoulders, though, and it’s still as thick and brown as ever. Your freckles are darker, your eyes are a little older, but you haven’t changed much.

Still, you’re a grown woman, now. The memories of what happened in high school seem far away, sometimes. But then you dream about her, about a flash of blue, and butterflies, and the photographs on your wall, it it’s as new as ever. It’s been over twenty years, and your parents are elderly, now. Joyce, David, gone because of lives shortened by grief, and pain. You miss them. You miss Joyce, really, but you also miss the stories she used to tell you about David in his old age, just a crotchety old man grumbling about kids on his lawn.

She was proud of you. Your parents are proud of you. You call them every day, and listen to them talk about their days, about their senior apartment complex, and their stories about everyone in it. Your mother is soft, and she still has her sense of humour, but your father is starting to get absent-minded. He tries to talk to you about hockey games, about football, about anything, and loses his train of thought halfway through. You try not to think about it too much. It would be alright.

.

At forty-three, you get an invitation to Warren’s wedding. It comes as a bit of a surprise, because you haven’t spoken in a few months, and he never mentioned he was dating anyone. Still, you promise to attend, and clear your schedule for a few days. Colorado is a beautiful state, and you think it’s rather fitting for him. You get off the plane in Denver, and drive yourself to Boulder.

It’s a small ceremony, and you don’t really know too many people there. Warren and Kate were never as close as you were to either of them, so anyone you do know is just through stories Warren has told you in his emails. Still, it’s not unpleasant. His bride is a woman with dark skin, and darker hair, and a slight accent. She’s intelligent, you can see it in her eyes, and when she and Warren talk, it’s almost like a ricochet.

“I’m so happy for you,” you tell him later, as you share a dance, “she’s lovely. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about her.”

“Sorry,” he laughs, sheepish, “I thought I did. I guess that was a pretty big surprise.”

“Just a little. I didn’t think I’d ever see you get married.”

“Well… I kinda thought maybe I never would.” He averted his eyes, “But meeting her changed my mind.”

“That’s fine,” you smile, “you’re both happy.”

“We are.” He looks relieved. When the song finishes, you excuse yourself, and sit back down at your table, thinking. Warren is a year younger than you, but he’s still in his forties. He looks it - not in a bad way. You’re rather proud of the handsome man he’s become. Almost like seeing a little brother finally married, and happy, and successful. He deserves this.

You swirl your white wine, thinking. Maybe you could’ve been married by now. You’d certainly met enough men and women over the years, from all over the world. You’d been to Hong Kong, to Singapore, to Paris, and London, and Barcelona; Cairo, and Madagascar, and everywhere in between. You’d met so many people of different faiths, and colours, and cultures. Spent most of your time behind a camera, sure, but you’d still met them, nonetheless, right?

It wasn’t as if you weren’t attracted to anyone, anymore. Maybe you _would_ find someone. But you think of her, know you probably won’t, and it doesn’t make you sad.

. 

Of course, all those trips start to blend with age. Fashion shows in Paris, and Singapore, travelling through huddled streets in Barcelona, trying to communicate with locals in Cairo, and failing, but laughing with them about it. Tours through Madagascar with your camera in your hands the whole time, listening to your guide talk about the animals you saw.

Small hotel rooms in Hong Kong, with dark paneled walls, where everything was so quiet, it was almost eerie. Silent halls, and a large window overlooking cranes that moved cargo to and from ships in a harbor. Crowded streets in Paris, lined with fashionable boutiques, and cobblestone roads, full of tourists and honking cars. The busy nights in Singapore, where roadways overlapped each other, and lights blurred as your driver took you to the hotel where you were staying. Trees sprouting in between the concrete, and buildings built high, instead of long.

Hong Kong was the same. Both places had tall, tall buildings, to compensate for the lack of space. There was something pleasantly crowded about it. Barcelona had the same sort of close-together feeling, but from age, rather than lack of space. Yellowed stones, and hanging plants, flowering in the summer. The air was almost sticky with heat, and smells carried through the air. Dust, and cooking food, and perfume.

Well, each place was unique. But all you could really remember, now, were small details from insignificant things. The smog in the skies of Hong Kong, and the ferry you took across the water. The long stairs, leading up to an observatory. The black, aged, metal of cafe chairs in Paris. The dry heat in Cairo, and the way the sands in the desert looked like the ocean.

Age really did creep up on you. You weren’t even fifty yet, and still. You could feel your memory lapsing. Maybe it was a side-effect of all the timey-wimey stuff you’d done in high school. Maybe you were paying for it now, losing your time like grains of sand. But it sounded so dramatic when you put it like that. So it was easier to think you were just getting old.

.

So, you never get married. Your parents tease you, but they don’t mean it, and it’s fine. Kate and Jack have two beautiful girls, and a baby boy. Madeline is fourteen years old, and she looks like her mother. Her little sister, Emily, is nine. They both call you auntie, and you love them. You know you’ll love that little boy just as much. You’re there for Daniel’s birth, just like you were there for Emily, and Madeline.

When your mother calls to say your father has passed away, it feels like a gentle wave of calm. Emily is sitting in your lap, and looking up at you with wide brown eyes. You smile at her when you hang up the phone, and she asks, “What’s wrong, auntie?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” you say, “but I have to go say goodbye to my dad.”

She wrinkles her nose, and says, “Where did he go?”

Kate comes out from her kitchen, holding Daniel, a small bundle of yellow. You look at her, and feel something rise in your throat. You breathe, shaky, and look back at Emily, and say, “He went to see God.”

At this, Kate inhales, and comes over to you, sitting beside you, and putting a hand on your shoulder. Emily’s eyebrows knit, and she hugs you tight around the middle. You laugh, and sob.

“It’s okay, auntie,” she says, “we’re here for you.”

“We always will be, Max,” Kate murmurs, “I’m so sorry.”

You smile, and it hurts.

.

When Madeline graduates high school, you take photos the entire time. Kate is beaming with pride, and Jack holds Daniel, now almost four years old, and looking just like him. Emily spends the entire time searching for Madeline in the crowd, and squeals when she sees her.

“There she is!” She points wildly, tugging her mom’s sleeve, “There’s Maddie!”

Kate laughs, and you grin, zooming in. Madeline has her head held eye, a smile wide across her face. These were the moments that you really loved capturing. Your god-daughter, eighteen and beautiful, a young woman with a promising future, and huge dreams. Madeline sees them after hearing Emily holler, seeing her sister’s arms waving frantically, and she laughs. Snap, snap. It feels like your face might break in half from smiling, but it’s worth it.

.

You spend your fiftieth birthday in a quiet house in Baja California, on the ocean. Sipping tea, and watching the sun set, you reflect on everything in your life thus far. Almost all of it was documented in photographs, but there was a week you still hadn’t told anyone about. A week no one would ever see. And now, at fifty years old, you could honestly say it was probably the entire reason you were the way you were now.

You had no more regrets. You made the right choice. It still felt like a hollow spot, sometimes, just below your heart, but you did the right thing. You know that, now. Age and wisdom went hand in hand after all, you muse. At least for you.

 _Don’t forget about me_ , she had told you. As if anyone ever forgot their first love. You close your eyes on the back patio, bathed in deep orange light, and let yourself rest.

_Happy birthday, Max._

You keep your eyes closed, but you still smile.

.

Your mother dies seven years after your father. In some ways, it’s easier the second time. If only because she knew she was falling ill, and talked to you frankly about her condition. You’re fifty-one when you bury her beside your father. The apartment complex gives you a few days to get her things out of the apartment. You take photos, and blankets, and sweaters. Everything smells like time.

The dresser has a layer of dust. In a glass bowl, all your mother’s jewelry: some earrings, a brooch, and two necklaces. You take all of those, too, to hold on to. You take your mother’s knitting needles, and yarn, and all of your father’s books. In the end, you’re left with three boxes of things, and when you pack everything into your small car, you’re out of breath. You aren’t young anymore, either.

From the road, you call the apartment offices to tell them you’re done. There’s a cleaning crew to take care of the rest. It takes several days to drive back to San Francisco, and you get calls from Kate and Jack and the girls every day. Warren calls you twice, to check on you. Otherwise, it’s quiet. You play oldies the whole way back, and let the trees blend together.

.

The last time you see her, you’re sixty-four, and she speaks. This time, you finally hear her.

“Come on, Max,” she says, taking your hand, “it’s time to go.”

You smile, and let her lead you away. 

.

_Of course it mattered._

**Author's Note:**

> honestly, i. started writing this as a gift for chrisis, but it just. got so damn long, and. i dunno. it never got finished. so. uh. i've been writing this since october, 2015... holy shit. i mean. i haven't been working on it constantly in that time, but. that's still a long time to have a WIP... well, whatever. i'm publishing it now. 
> 
> uh. i dunno what to really say, HAHA. i really. i might come back and edit this, but, uh. i don't know. this is kind of personal for me, because. i have a lot of trouble dealing with death, and. i guess this was my attempt to try and deal with some of that, but. UH. anyway.
> 
> i want to note, i'm not apologising for david's actions, or nathan's, lol. my own step-father was... really. not. good, and, i just. i think max is probably a more forgiving person than i am, but maybe that's also more. me being hopeful. :') 
> 
> anyway, uh. it's 4:30am, so. i'm gonna post this before i can think any more about what a bad idea this is. BYE


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